The Land of the Silver Apples

They opened and closed their nostrils to change pitch. “Listen to this one, Pega dearest,” the Bugaboo said. “It’s a lament for a prince whose love has gone far away.”

“Not far enough,” muttered Pega.

“Look on the bright side,” said Jack as the hideous skirling broke out again. “Nothing’s going to attack us in the night with that going on.”

Jack woke up under a heavy layer of dew. The fire had burned down to embers, and dawn reddened a few wispy clouds. Everyone else was asleep. He got up and fed the coals from a heap of branches the hobgoblins must have gathered the night before.

Jack sat close to the fire to dry his clothes. If he hadn’t known the others were there, he might have thought he was alone. Everyone was burrowed into heaps of grass. It looked like a collection of haystacks.

The dawn chorus began, first doves, then nuthatches, wrens, sparrows, and a few crows. The first rays of sunlight struck the mountain peaks, making the waterfall shine like fire. He looked for the opening to Elfland, but the waterfall concealed it.

Thorgil threw back her grass cover and came over to sit beside Jack. “I couldn’t understand the birds in Elfland. I understand these wretched squawkers too well,” she said. Thorgil had never been fond of birds, except when roasted.

“What are they saying?” asked Jack.

“The usual rot: ‘Feed me, feed me. I want a beetle, a beetle, a fat tasty beetle.’ The rest are threatening their enemies. There’s something unusual.” Thorgil listened intently.

Jack saw a flock of swallows swooping through the upper air, just below the brightening clouds.

“I can’t quite make it out. Something like, ‘They’re here, they’re here, they’re here.’” Thorgil turned away from them and poked at the fire with a long stick. Her other hand was tucked protectively under her arm.

“People do recover from injuries,” Jack said carefully, watching the shield maiden.

“Many do not,” she replied.

“That’s no reason to give up.”

“I never give up!” she cried angrily. The two nearest haystacks quivered. “I’ll admit, when we were on the high ledge, I thought about throwing myself off.”

“Thorgil,” said Jack, alarmed.

“But I could not. This”—she grasped the hidden rune of protection—“prevented me. It sapped my courage. I should tear it off and hurl it into a lake.” Thorgil tightened her grip on the rune.

“But you can’t,” Jack guessed.

“No! The accursed thing won’t let me. I can’t get rid of it.”

“If I understand the Bard correctly, the rune chooses you,” said Jack. “One day you’ll know it’s time to pass it on—just as I knew you were to have it.” He didn’t say—what was the use?—that he missed it dreadfully and wanted it back.

“Gifts have a way of turning on you,” Thorgil muttered, staring into the fire.

Jack said nothing for a while. He thought about Lucy’s silver necklace. Sunlight was making its way down the mountain and would soon reach their camp. Mist fumed off a nearby pond, and Jack heard the light splash of a fish.

It was hard to stay depressed in such a place. “Why did you strike the demon who was about to take Father Severus?” he asked.

“What demon? I saw a huge dog.”

“A dog!”

“It was Garm, the hound that guards Hel. Rune described him to me. He has four eyes, jaws dripping with maggots, and he’s covered in blood. He tried to claim me, but I told him I was Odin’s shield maiden.”

Jack was astounded. It must be the same thing that happened with knuckers. You saw what you expected. “Well, then, why did you strike Garm?”

“I—” Thorgil paused, holding the rune of protection. “I thought he was being unjust. Why should he take Father Severus and ignore oath-breakers like Father Swein and Gowrie? Garm did take them later.” A satisfied smile flitted across Thorgil’s face.

“That’s it!” cried Jack, loud enough for Pega to sit up precipitously, scattering grass in all directions. “Remember Tyr? The god who sacrificed his hand to bind the giant wolf? It was a noble deed, to be sung about through all time—and you’ve done the same!”

Thorgil looked up, and now the morning light reached the camp and shone onto her face. “So I have,” she murmured.

“Yes! You’ll be known as—what shall we call you? Thorgil Silver-Hand, who fought the Hound of Hel. I’ll make a song about it.”

“Oh, Jack,” whispered the shield maiden. She blinked back tears, then shook her head angrily. “Curse this sunlight. It’s making my eyes water.”

Pega got up and began tidying the camp, as was her habit. She brought an armload of branches for the fire. “Are you talking about Tyr?” she remarked. “One of my owners taught me a poem about him.” She began reciting it in Saxon:

“Tyr bi tacna sum healde?
Trywas wel wi ? elingas.”

“I know that one,” said Jack. “‘Tyr is a star. It keeps faith well with princes, always on its course over the mists of night. It never fails.’ I memorized that when the Bard was teaching me about stars. I never connected it with the god.”

“After Tyr lost his hand, he became the guardian of voyagers,” explained Thorgil. “He stands at the roof of the sky, and his is the one star that never moves. We call it the Nail.”

“And we the Ship Star,” said Jack. He was delighted to see that the despair was gone from Thorgil’s face and that she no longer tried to hide her hand. It was silvery, as though powdered with metal. The color was clearer in the light.

The Bugaboo and the Nemesis climbed out of their grass coverings and helped Father Severus up. “You rest,” the Bugaboo told him. “We’ll see about breakfast.”

Ethne emerged last, looking cross at finding herself soaked with dew until she realized this was an opportunity to suffer. “I shall not sit by the fire,” she declared. “Pneumonia will be good for my soul.”

“Dry yourself. Pneumonia isn’t good for anything,” snapped Father Severus. So Ethne basked in warmth, and the rest of them waited eagerly to see what the hobgoblins would come up with.

They arrived with eels, pignuts, and the inevitable mushrooms. After a leisurely meal they held a meeting to decide where to go next.

“If we could find my ship, I’m sure we could take Father Severus home,” said Thorgil.

“Travel on a Northman ship?” the monk said faintly. “I don’t know…”

“We’d have room for all of you. Skakki hasn’t yet loaded up with thralls.” The shield maiden grinned maliciously.

“Thorgil,” warned Jack.

“The sea’s a day’s journey that way,” said the Bugaboo, pointing east. “There’s an opening to the Hollow Road near the beach, and we hobgoblins can go home. You’re an honorary hobgoblin, by the way, Pega.”

“No, I’m not,” said Pega.

“That’s the best plan,” the king blithely went on. “The pass through the mountains to the west is far too difficult for Father Severus.”

The travelers made ready to go, which didn’t take long, for they had nothing to carry. Pega took a quick bath in the lake. Jack found a walking stick for Father Severus, and Thorgil practiced using her knife with her left hand. She was in high spirits and demanded that Jack start on her praise poem at once. “Thorgil Silver-Hand. I like that,” she said.